Scars
Scars. I have a lot of them. Now, if you grew up in Samoa, you know what I'm talking about - rocks, machetes, fires, sores, boils - you name it. My earliest scar is on my hairline. When I was 3, a table was being moved, I got in the way, and bang, it cracked my skull and left a 1 inch scar. We liked to go clamming as a family in American Samoa. It was like a treasure hunt, and you could play in the water while digging for clams. We'd go to the village of Nu'uuli, each of us armed with a sack and dig for clams on the shore, using our bare hands. One afternoon, as we were digging for clams, I knelt down to dig and felt the sharp edge of a shell cut into my knee. That cut left a two-inch scar on my knee. But what I remember most is the huge delicious pot of clams we cooked up that night. Another day I sat on a chair under a louvered window. It was a warm sunny afternoon. I was sulking because I didn't want to do chores. Men were playing cricket outside on t